


Wolff's Law

by Eshnoazot



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Artistic seduction, Broken Bones, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eshnoazot/pseuds/Eshnoazot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wolff's law that states that bone in a healthy person or animal will adapt to the loads under which it is placed: If loading on a particular bone increases, the bone will remodel itself over time to become stronger to resist that sort of loading. The internal architecture undergoes adaptive changes, perhaps becoming thicker as a result.<br/>Sometimes Combeferre thinks that this a good metaphor for The Amis.</p>
<p>(Or in which Enjolras breaks a bone, and Grantaire breaks out the markers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolff's Law

**Author's Note:**

> Writing for new fandoms is always a fun experience.

The hospital was filled with the universally known sickly scent that resulted from liberal use of antibacterials; the same scent that both comforted Combeferre and made his stomach twist in a constant reminder of why exactly he was in a hospital room at 3am. It was inevitable that someone would get injured at one of their rallies, but they had deluded themselves to the idea that it would remain in the realm of black eyes and sprained wrists.

It had officially been 6 hours since Joly and Combeferre had exchanged brief looks as they saw the bone jutting through skin, and bundled up a ghostly pale Enjolras into Bossuet's car. The passionate blond had been shuddering with ill-contained pain and clutched an arm bent at a sickening angle to his chest. The worst had been steering the man through the angry mess of protesting students without causing any more damage to his arm. A human barricade had been erected around them by their friends as they had hustled him to the nearest hospital, where a doctor had taken one look at him and hurried him off to surgery.

The result was a bruised and battered Enjolras in a hospital bed, covered in dressing with an arm in a foam sling support. Somewhere in his mind he recognised that the man’s arm was elevated to reduce swelling, but even that sliver of knowledge was not enough to dull his concern at seeing his oldest friend so damaged. Enjolras’ eyes were open, and the grimace on his face was enough to tell him that even though he had been given injections to control the pain, that had worn off. But Enjolras was nothing but stubborn, and the Patient Controlled Analgesia remained unused by his bedside. Wordlessly Combeferre reached over and pressed the button on the control, and watched as the painkillers were injected into his bloodstream via the fine plastic tube inserted into his hand.

“What happened?” Enjolras ground out, moving his head to the side in a slow and clumsy gesture. An irritated look on his face seemed to be mostly directed towards himself rather than anything else, no doubt towards his foggy mind.

“We were at a rally Enjolras,” he started soothingly. “There was an incident with police, and you fell. We couldn’t get to you until after your arm had been broken.”

“My arm?” Enjolras muttered in confusion, before he noticed his elevated limb, “ _Oh_!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Combeferre leaned forward on his chair, “The general anaesthetic will make you forgetful and clumsy for the next 24 hours. The nurses and I are here if you need anything. Don’t rush yourself; right now we need you to get better on your own time.”

“How bad is it?” Enjolras muttered, from underneath his lashes. His exhausted face made the man pause and wonder how much their fearless leader would remember when he woke up.

“They’ve placed metal plates and screws on both the radius and ulna. You were given a tetanus shot when you came in because of your open fracture- better safe than sorry,” Combeferre gently said, “You’ll have to be in hospital for a few more days. Once they’re removed your wound drain, and stitches, and the swelling goes down, I suspect they’ll want to place a cast on you. It could have been much worse.”

“Thank you ‘Ferre,” Enjolras muttered in a tone so ridden with exhaustion, it took a few minutes to decipher. “Is everyone else okay?”

“No one else was injured too severely,” He paused, “Bahorel went to bail out Grantaire a few hours ago, and Bossuet has a broken nose. They’ll all fine, and they’ll be back in the morning when you wake up.”

The soft sound of sleep greeted his words. He watched his friend’s face for a few moments, beforeslumping his shoulders in relief. It was easier on him than the other’s he supposed; as a medical student he had recognised the seriousness of the situation, but experienced the relief that the wound wasn’t worse. From the blood on the ground, he had nearly expected to see the entirety of the inside’s of Enjolras’ arm. It was just as well that as soon as Enjolras had turned 18, he’d had the foresight to ask Combeferre to take over the role of medical contact. Except it had been less of a question, and more of a prepared speech complete with cue cards, a slideshow on statistics intermixed with a pro and con list, and a contract of rights, responsibilities and his personal wishes in preparation of certain events.

All delivered in the same certain passion tone he gave every faucet of his life.

Combeferre waited a few more minutes, watching the rise and fall of Enjolras’ chest, smiling at the nurse who walked in to check on the man in question and usher his visitor out at the end of visiting hours. His feet felt as if they were dragging as he made his way back through the long hallway towards the waiting room. He had barely stepped through the threshold before multiple heads snapped towards the doorway, as if sensing his silent entry. It seemed as if the entirety of The Amis were in the small waiting room; curled into piles of worry and fright.

The signs were all over the place; Jehan was covered in inky poetic words, and not a single one of his friends had been saved from his concerned poetic coping mechanism, least of all Courfeyrac who had borne the brunt of it with his arms curled around the poet. Feuilly was surrounded by various origami animals, besides Joly intimately reading pamphlets on aftercare with Bossuet’s arm around his waist, furiously texting as he squinted his eyes to read through the swelling of his nose. Even Marius and Cosette were still in the waiting room, seemingly forgetting about Marius’ utter terror of Cosette’s ex-convict father. Around all of them seemed to be the entire contents of the vending machine.

“Enjolras is going to be okay,” He announced to the room, pausing as they all let out deep sighs of relief and allowed tentative smiles back onto their faces, “The surgery went well, and he was awake for a few minutes, but he’s sleeping now. The nurses are letting visitors back in, in the morning. Until then, my strongest suggestion is that everyone goes home and gets a good night’s sleep.”

The sound of protests went up, but Combeferre waved them away with a strong glance, “I’ll let you know if anything changes, but everyone is exhausted. I’ll watch over our fearless leader tonight, and finish filling out paperwork and making appointments for his orthopaedic outpatient and physiotherapy, but everyone else needs to get some sleep. Besides, Enjolras is going to be out of commission for a while, and there’s no telling how he’s going to react to that, paired with the realisation that he’s broken his dominant arm.”

“I don’t envy you with that.” Courfeyrac called, with a grin.

“My point entirely,” He responded with a frown, “Go sleep. Tomorrow we can figure out who wants to be on Enjolras-sitting duty until he gets better. While everyone is going home, I would appreciate updates on Bahorel and Grantaire. Let them know I’ll do what I can on my end if they need anything.”

It was nearly 4am before everyone had sufficiently protested and made plans based on who had cars and who had room to take them home. Jehan hung back a few minutes to take a pen from his hair and press a poetry-covered heart into his hands.

“’Ferre, will you give this to Enjolras for us?”

He nodded at the smaller man’s relieved smile, and watched as he turned to swiftly catch up with Courf, who tried hard to pretend that he hadn’t been waiting around the corner.

It took only a few minutes to notice the scrawled get well wishes across the heart before he set it on Enjolras’ bedside table and mixed his own inky wishes across the paper.

-

“Combeferre,” Enjolras’ voice was laden with utter confusion, as he glanced around the room before settling on the man in the chair beside him, “What time is it?”

“4:45pm, Wednesday,” Combeferre announced, watching him intently, “You’ve been in and out for over a day. It’s been two days since the rally.”

“A whole day?” Enjolras looked stricken, which only grew as he caught sight of his elevated arm, “’Ferre-“

“We were at the protest, when the police arrived. Everyone scattered, and you were pushed to the ground. You would have been okay, but a police officer hit you and you fell into the path of a police horse.” Combeferre paused, “Before you ask, the horse is okay.”

“How badly is my arm injured?” Enjolras managed to look particularly perturbed and nonplussed, “I don’t need to remind you that I have quite a significant amount of work to get done and although working with a cast on is going to be troublesome, working with only one hand would be even worse.”

“Enjolras, you went into surgery. They had to pin your arm back together, I’m afraid this is a little more serious than a cast. Given that you’re broken both your ulna and radius, and you had an open wound it’s going to be about six months before you’re back to normal function.”

“Six months,” Enjolras’ eyes narrowed dangerously, “’Ferre-“

“Enjolras,” Combeferre responded sharply, “In a few hours, a nurse will come and pull out your wound drain. In 8 days your stitches are going to be removed, and if your swelling has gone down, they’ll place a cast on you that you _will_ wear for six weeks. You will visit a physical therapist to ensure that you are properly healing, but your arm was snapped in half, and puncturing your skin. At this moment in time, 6 months is a conservative estimation. You suffered a serious injury. I am under strict orders to keep you on light activity for the first month, and if I have to handcuff you to myself to ensure you do no further damage to your arm, _I will._ ”

Enjolras slumped, “I have work to do!”

“If you need something written, I will gladly offer my services to transcribe for you, as long as you take it easy,” He contemplated the sullen man with a serious gaze, “You are hardly any help if you do not respect your own limits while you are healing. We have already contacted the university and explained the situation. You have been given six weeks leeway on all assignments and special consideration is being given to you during exam period.”

Enjolras glowered at his arm for a few seconds, before shifting his gaze towards the mass of origami, flowers and notes across his bedside table.

“Visitors?” He questioned, seemingly letting the subject go, “Did we suffer any other injuries?”

“I believe you asked the same question earlier yesterday morning,” Combeferre responded with a quirked lip, “Bossuet re-broke his nose, but when he stopped by earlier he seemed fine. Most people have come to see you, bearing gifts. They’re all worried about you. Feuilly just left to head to work, but Jehan and Courfeyrac are going to arrive in half an hour.”

Enjolras nodded, and noted the book on his bedside table with a dangerous mix of surprise and fondness, “ _’Common Sense’?_ Who brought me Thomas Paine?”

“Grantaire used his one entitled call to make Courfeyrac promise that he’d bring it to your bedside,” Combeferre looked faintly amused, “You can take the issue up with R when we see him next.”

“Entitled call? Grantaire was _arrested_?”

“It seems he took offence at the police officer hitting you, and causing grievous bodily harm to your person,” The man responded dryly, “It took us 24 hours to get him out, considering he assaulted a police officer. _Don’t be angry at him_ Enjolras, he was the one who pulled you up and out of the way of the horses.”

Enjolras frowned, “I’ll thank him next time I see him.”

“Good, would you like anything? I’m told you’re allowed to eat some soup or drink some water if you can manage it.”

“I would appreciate both,” Enjolras smiled gently, “As for the screws and plates in my arm; when can they be removed?”

“I’m afraid they’re going to have to stay in,” ‘Ferre paused, “There is a risk of serious injury to a nerve when taking out the metal plates, because a nerve may be embedded in scar tissue. However, if they become problematic, and you consider removal, a second surgery can be scheduled when your bones have fully solidified; maybe in 18 months?”

Enjolras sighed deeply.

“Until then, I’ll find a nurse and see about getting you some food, and you can read through all the notes and well-wishes that everyone sent, or you can glance over R’s book,” Combeferre stood sending cracking of groans of his joints across the room, “Courfeyrac has a copy of your X-Ray on his phone if you’re interested, and the remote is underneath the origami lion if you’re feeling up to watching anything. _Stay put_.”

He paused at the door, and glanced back meaningfully, “I’ll do what I can to bring your back your laptop, if you don’t give any of the nurse’s trouble.”

Enjolras continued to sulk, but dutifully remained silent as he reached over to pick up the well-worn copy of _‘Common Sense’,_ his eyes were curious but happy as he flicked through the pages, before narrowing his eyes dangerously.

“’Ferre, have you seen this? _‘For you Apollo, for you have no Common Sense of your own.’_ He’s mocking me!” Enjolras soured, “Every single page is filled with drunken cynical criticism.”

“Do you want potato and leek, or pumpkin soup?”Combeferre called back from the doorway.

“Pumpkin,” Enjolras replied absent-mindedly, “He’s _infuriating_! He called Thomas Paine _‘a largely derivative plagiarist farce.’_ Honestly, if he can’t stand my political viewpoints I don’t understand why he bothers to attend meetings, let alone why he continues this charade when his apathy towards the world is fundamentally clear!”

“I ordered you a chocolate pudding cup,” ‘Ferre offered, returning to his chair, and digging through the backpack at his feet, “And technically though R disagrees with your viewpoints, he doesn’t find them intolerable. I find that he attends meetings in order to both challenge his own understanding and view circumstances in a different life, but I’m sure Grantaire has his own reasons. Apple juice?”

Enjolras silently accepted the proffered bottle, and continued his brooding as he toyed with the straw. He took a few tentative sips, slowly consume the bottle in minute amounts as Combeferre stretched in his chair.

“And to be fair, if he did find you intolerable, I’m not sure he would have effectively saved your life.”

Enjolras smoothed out his blankets and let out a deep sigh, “When can I be released from hospital?”

“Once your cast is set you can be released; there are some concerns about the stability and fragility of your arm.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Your bones were sticking out of your arm, and you were fading in and out of consciousness on the way to the hospital,” ‘Ferre paused, “You made the evening news.”

Enjolras’ eyes snapped up, and his fingers twitched, “ _’Ferre_.”

Sighing, Combeferre picked up the phone hidden under the pile of origami, and handed it to Enjolras who accepted the device with a solemn expression.

“Thank you.”

Within seconds Enjolras had loaded up several news sites and was adamantly searching up information on the failed rally, with an unrelenting gaze.

“Take it easy Enjolras,” Combeferre paused as stood to leave, “You have a long stay here before anyone will be comfortable releasing you.”

-

“ _He lives_ ,” The solemn words from the doorway encouraged Enjolras to glance up from his laptop at the paint speckled man watching him in concern, “So Apollo, there is no delicate way to put this- you look like shit. The hospital has not agreed with your sensitive disposition.”

The past week had not been Enjolras’ favourite time of his life. His hatred of hospitals was bad enough, but the injury to his dominant arm resulted in a gangly hesitance when typing, though the man refused to give up his laptop and clung to it like a lifeline.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Enjolras called back in annoyance, studying Grantaire’s face. “I could say the same about you.”

Thick shadows hung under the cynic’s eyes; bruises from lack of sleep highlighted by his sallow skin and gaunt cheeks. His hair was hidden underneath one of his favourite woollen caps, and specks of paint and charcoal covered his skin and clothing. Enjolras’ eyes caught on his split lip and briefly wondered whether the wound had been caused by the policeman he’d taken on.

“You could,” R shrugged, “Though I was remarking on your change from your usual appearance. Mine is relatively the same.”

“All the same; thank you.” Enjolras offered a tight smile.

R’s eyebrows shot up, “A sign of appreciation, from dear Apollo himself? Have the heavens revolted? Has the Seine run dry?”

“I am capable of being appreciative,” Enjolras frowned, “If you wouldn’t place me on a pedestal, you would perhaps be more able to see such signs.”

“Perhaps, but the heavens are not the place in which I frequent.” Grantaire vaguely replied, “All the same, I come bearing gifts! Perhaps we may make use of them while Combeferre is busting you out.”

“He is hardly _busting me out_.” Enjolras eyed Grantaire curiously, as the man held a pack of permanent markers with a wide smile, “He insisted on finding a wheelchair. How did you manage to sneak through into this room, when everyone else was barred in the waiting room?”

“I have _contacts_ in the nursing staff, although I hear Courf and Jehan plan on making a break for it soon,” Grantaire wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, before gesturing with the marker pack “May I?”

“What do you hope to achieve with _those_?”

“I swear by all I believe in that I shan’t desecrate your cast with images of Greek love; I shall keep my artistic talents to an Enjolras-friendly, and therefore children-friendly respectability. Cross my heart.”

“You believe in nothing.”

“I believe in _you_.” Grantaire responded steadily.

Wordlessly Enjolras nodded, and tried to look away as Grantaire smiled widely and pulled a pencil from behind his ear with obvious glee.

“Thank you Grantaire.” Enjolras eventually broke the silence, as he turned to glance at the inky-haired man until he flushed and looked back down to his canvas, “I appreciate your efforts in ensuring that my life was not ended prematurely.”

Grantaire perked up, and levelled an accusing eye, “That sentence reeks of belief in pre-destination and fate.”

“On the contrary I fully believe in the ability of humankind to make their own choices and exercise their free will,” Enjolras jutted his chin defiantly, “I find that belief in fate is often used as justification for immoral decisions and personal irresponsibility.”

“Then you don’t believe that the fates ordained your survival? That above in the heavens Lachesis is spinning your life onto her spindle and Atropos is hovering with her abhorred shears?” Grantaire paused to prop his pencil behind his ear, and pull out the coloured markers, “Not even in divine intervention to encourage you back onto your path of righteousness and revolution?”

“You are an atheist, Grantaire.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth!” Grantaire rolled his eyes, “I simply claim that if God did exist; his tampering has rendered life vague, tragic and directionless. Any God who lacks the ability to make life certain and meaningful and who necessitates the use of revolutions as a way to fix such issues, is one that is apparently fucking awful at his job, and not one that I will worship.”

 Enjolras narrowed his eyes, “Yet you see no need for a revolution for the betterment of our society, even though you grant that life is tragic without intervention?”

“Enjolras _, in revolutions authority remains with the greatest scoundrels_.”

“You dare quote Danton at me?” Enjolras glowered back, earning a wider grin from Grantaire.

“ _Dare, Dare Again, Always Dare.”_ Grantaire gave a bow cramped by the limited space between the chair and the bed, “Am I offending your Robespierrean loyalties, Apollo?”

“Danton’s hypocrisy leaves much to be desired.”

“Robespierre essentially wrote a love declaration to _fruit tarts_ ,” Grantaire cleared his throat and dramatically recited “ _I give thee thanks who first with skillful hand, Did fashion paste and pastry to command, And gave to mortals this delicious dish, So nothing more was left for them to wish.”_

“You still didn’t answer your own question; are you a believer in fate?” Enjolras ignored the barb but tightened his jaw in anger.

“I envision myself a Pygmalion.” Grantaire paused, concentrating on Enjolras’ cast for a long moment, “Have you seen the Enjolras-sitting schedule yet? I hear Courfeyrac is taking the watch.”

“I hardly need constant attention; I’m injured, not incapable,” Enjolras frowned deeply, “I believe your copy of _‘Common Sense’_ is packed away in my Duffle bag; if you would like to retrieve it-“

“Keep it,” Grantaire responded simply, “A gift to encourage your recovery.”

“A _‘plagiarist farce’_ hardly seems to fit the traditional requirements of a gift.”

Grantaire laughed, “I’m not sure the nurses- nor you- would appreciate my _traditional_ gift of Scotch Whiskey.”

Enjolras’ lips thinned.

“Besides, I had no doubt that you’d find issues with my ideas of Paine; I also knew that without anything to occupy your mind, you’d wilt,” R grinned, “Let’s not pretend that you don’t have an entire speech you’ve planned in your head to attempt to convince me that I’m entirely wrong.”

“Combeferre has been highly dutiful at the expense of his own rest; can you ensure that he gets plenty of rest?” Enjolras announced, drawing a snort from the darker haired man.

“I will do as Apollo asks.” Grantaire gave an awkward bow, “I’m sure we can distract him enough- after all, we cannot have your platonic husbandship threatened by tired minds and exhausted faces. No doubt he would take us all in the divorce!”

Enjolras sighed, and scratched at his hospital gown in distaste, and mournfully looked at his arm. The wound drain had been removed a few days ago, and his stitches removed more recently, but he could tell the signs of a lasting-scar had all been present even before the cast was set on his arm. Everyone seemed concern with his now marred skin, seemingly not comprehending the battle scar he would wear as a badge of honour against unjust systems.

He was so deeply absorbed in his churning thoughts that he jumped when a mess of people burst into the room, with enough noise that Enjolras vaguely wondered if they’d be kicked out.

“ _Enjy_!”

“I was under the impression that only Jehan and Courfeyrac were visiting,” Enjolras frowned, “I’ve been repeatedly told that I’m allowed a maximum of three visitors at any one time, to avoid disturbing other patients.”

“We came to an arrangement with the nurses.” Courfeyrac winked at a passing nurse who flushed and hurried past the door.

“Have you quite finished terrorizing the medical staff?” Enjolras frowned at Courfeyrac, who grinned cheekily and winked at Enjolras, looking all the part of the avenging angel.

“Does someone need more pain meds?” Courf’s voice was melodic and thoroughly irritating; especially to a man who had been cooped up in a hospital bed for the better part of a week. Jehan by his side gave a rueful smile, as he went back to his task of filling his notebook with words while Joly fawned over the chart at the end of the bed.

“Enjolras needed more pain meds the second you walked in here.” Eponine snapped back, looking irritated to the degree that was clear that she’d had enough exposure to him for the day. Gavroche by her side looked wide eyed at all the equipment in the room, and somehow he had managed to swipe a pudding cup from somewhere in the hospital.

“Does anyone else wish to partake in get-well traditions- providing Enjolras doesn’t object, of course?” Grantaire awkwardly stood, leaving the markers on the bed beside Enjolras, “Since the room is growing crowded, I may as well hunt for the fabled coffee machine I keep hearing whispers of.”

“Third floor, near the daycare centre,” Offered Bossuet cheerfully.

“Oh _dear god_.”

“Are you sure we’re not disturbing you?” Joly fussed, “Sleep is an important part of the healing process, and you need to get as much rest as possible.

“I need to return to work; I could be organizing a counter-protest to the unlawful interference in a peaceful protest, and planning our next move against this clear infringement of our rights,” Enjolras frowned, and shifted in his bed carefully as to not disturb the markers, “Have you seen the reactions of the public? This is an opportune time to launch an action, which would be well received in the current climate. The opinions are in our favour.”

“But not in yours,” Joly interrupted with wide eyes, “Enjolras, you suffered a _complete compound fracture_ with considerable displacement and angulation that required reduction of the bone and surgical intervention. You have a higher risk of infections especially since you suffered soft tissue damage, and you have a real possibility of contracting _osteomyelitis_ , or acute compartment syndrome, and we don’t even know if your bone is going to heal well, and you could need bone grafts to stimulate-“

“Breathe,” Bossuet muttered lowly enough that Enjolras barely heard, “Enjolras will be _fine_. Everyone is saying that he’s doing well, and he gets his cast on today. He’ll be okay Joly; you did a good job getting him to hospital, you kept his arm stable.”

“My deepest appreciation, Joly,” Enjolras nodded sharply, “You shall no doubt prove to be an exceptional addition to the medical community once you graduate.”

Jehan bobbed his head as he moved towards Enjolras’ arm and started adding fine words to the cuff of his cast, “I should warn you that I think we were spotted by the lovely head nurse on our way through, although there were little about our advancement that could be considered sneaky.”

“I tripped,” Bossuet offered glumly, “Twice.”

“But the most important thing is that we’re all here to make sure that you get better soon,” Jehan smiled broadly, as he picked up a marker and added his own well wishes to the cast.

“So the whole entourage is here today, Enjolras!” The bright and cheerful voice of the nurse breezed through the room, “I’m afraid that they’ll have to wait in the waiting room, as per hospital rules.”

“We prefer the term _‘groupies’_.”

“That isn’t an issue,” Enjolras responded, cutting off Courfeyrac before he could continue, “They will be respectful of hospital regulations, in the future.”

“ _Spoilsport.”_

Jehan took a minute to pick up his bags; packed with everything quintessentially Enjolras from the small hospital room, and smiled kindly at the nurse as he pulled a protesting Courf behind him.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook yet,” Eponine called as she left, holding her phone threateningly, “We certainly didn’t sneak 200 metres to have you snitch on us, Blondie.”

The whole process of changing into loose jeans and a flannel, and being placed back in a damned wheelchair took longer than expected. The corridors were winding and difficult to navigate but he could hear the various sounds of the Amis causing a ruckus in the waiting room before he could re-orientate himself.

The cast on his arm was heavy – still lighter than he’d imagined, but understandably stiff and sore. Grantaire had certainly stuck to his word; Enjolras could find no fault in his art. Approximately where his arm had been broken, a cartoon image of a bandaid was placed; with cartoon representations of the Amis standing on a ladder running parallel to the break. Each held tools to repair the break that fit their personalities well. The image was simplistic, but sentimental, though Enjolras noted with a frown that Cartoon-Grantaire simply sat by the bottom of the ladder facing away from the group, with a bottle in his palm.

 The nurse spoke in calming tones above his head about physical therapy and exercises to increase range of motion, prompting him several times to repeat back information that he only partially absorbed.Combeferre by his side seemed much more interested in the information. It seemed that with the rush of friends, and internet surfing he hadn’t had a chance to _feel_ his arm. Painkillers were certainly dulling the pain, but there was something to be said about the epiphany brought on by suddenly becoming conscious of a _wrongness_ in your bones. He had barely a moment to contemplate this sensation when the light of the waiting room hit his face,

“Enjolras,” Marius squeaked as he caught sight of the blond man, causing a chain reaction of joyous shouts from the group that had gathered for his sake. The relief was tangible, and it took several minutes for the group to disperse from their vigil, for Enjolras to ditch the wheelchair and head into the parking lot where mock-arguments broke out.

The sudden light and flashes of colours dulled in his mind, surprising him that his natural circadian rhythm had been thrown out so much in a little over a week. While shotguns were being called, and thumb wars settled scores on seating arrangements, he was steering away from Bossuet’s minivan towards the backseat of Marius’ car, with muttered promises of an armrest made of pillows.

“Cosette would have loved to be here, but unfortunately she couldn’t make it due to prior family commitments, and Feuilly had to work and he couldn’t get out of his shift but he sends his well-wishes.” Marius kept up a steady stream of babble while Courfeyrac staked his claim on the passenger seat as ‘official Apollo-sitter’. Enjolras yawned, and closed his eyes as the car started moving intent on claiming a few minutes respite before arriving _home_.


End file.
